"'Well, bo,' somehow I knows no more about it till such time as I sort o' wakes up in pitch-dark, all choke and sweat, an' a feller's dirty big toe in my mouth, with mine in some un else's eye; so out I spits it, an' makes a scramble for my life. By the roll and the splash I knowed I wor down in the schooner's hold; an' be hanged if there warn't twenty or thirty holding on like bees to a open weather-port, where the fresh wind and the spray come a-blowing through—but there, my boy, 'twere no go for to get so much as the tip o' yer nose. Accordently, up I prizes myself with my feet on another poor devil's wool—for d' ye see, by that time I minds a man's face no more nor so much timber—an' I feels for the hatch over me, where by good luck, as I thought, there I finds it not battened down yet, so I shoved my head through on deck like a blacksmith's hammer.
"'Well, mate, there was the schooner's deck wet, a swell of a sea on round her, well off the land, no trifle of a morning gale, and the craft heeling to it; a lot o' hands up on her yards, a-reefing at the boom mains'l and fo'taups'l, an' if my heart doesn't jump into my mouth with the sight, for I feels it for all the world like a good glass o' grog, settin' all to rights. Two or three there was walkin' aft the quarter-deck, so out I sings, "Hullo! hullo there, shipmates, give us a hand out o' this!" Two on 'em comes for'ard, one lifts a handspike, but both gives a grin, as much as to say it's some nigger tongue or other in place o' good English—for, d' ye see, they'd half their faces black-beard, and rings i' their ears—when up walks another chap like the skipper, an' more the looks of a countryman. "I'm a free-born Briton!" roars I again; with that he lends me a squint, looks to the men, and gives some sort of a sign, when they jams-to the hatch and nips me fast by the neck. "Devil of a deep beggar, this 'ere!" says he; "jist give him the gag, my lads," says he; "the planters often thinks more of a dumby, 'cause he works the more, and a stout piece o' goods this is!" says he. Well, mate, what does they do but one pulls out a knife, an' be blowed if they warn't a-goin' for to cut out my tongue; but the men aloft sung out to hoist away the yards; so they left me ready clinched till they'd belay the ropes. Next a hand for'ard, by good luck, hailed "Sail ho!" and they'd some'at else to think o' besides me; for there, my boy, little more nor three miles to wind'ard, I see'd the Irish as she come driving bodily out o' the mist, shakin' out her three to'gallant-sails, an' a white spray flying with her off one surge to another. Rather bad it was, mind ye, for my windpipe, for every time the schooner pitched, away swings my feet clear o' the nigger's heads—'cause, d' ye see, we chanced for to be stowed on the 'tween-decks, an' another tier there was, stuffed in her lower hold—an' there I stuck, mate, so as I couldn't help watchin' the whole chase, till at last the hatch slacks nip a bit, and down I plumps into the dark again.
"'Well, bo', the breeze got lighter, an' to all seemin' the cursed schooner held her own; but hows'ever, the sloop-o'-war kept it up all day, and once or twice she tips us a long shot; till by sunset, as I reckoned, we hears no more on her. The whole night long, again, there we stews as thick as peas—I keeps harknin' to the sighs and groans, an' the wash along the side, in a sort of a doze; an' s'help me Bob, I fancies for a moment I'm swinging in my hammock in the foc'sle, an it's no more but the bulkheads and timbers creakin'. Then I thinks it's some un else I dreams on, as is oneasy, like to choke for heat and thirst; and I'm a-chucklin' at him—when up I wakes with the cockroaches swarming over my face. Another groan runs from that end to this, the whole lot on us tries hard, and kicks their neighbours to turn, an' be blowed if I knowed but I was buried in a churchyard, with the horrid worms all a-crawl about me. All on a suddent, nigh-hand to daybreak it was, I hears a gun to wind'ard, so with that I contrives for to scramble up with my eye to the scuttle-port. 'Twas a stiffish breeze, an' I see'd some'at lift on a sea like a albatross's wing, as one may say—though what wor this but the Irish's bit of a tender, standing right across our bows—for the schooner, ye see, changed her course i' the night-time, rig'lar slaver's dodge, thinkin' for to drop the sloop-o'-war, sure enough. But as for the little f'lucca, why they hadn't bargained for her at all, lying-to as she did, with a rag o' sail up, in the troughs of the sea, till the schooner was close on her.
"'Well, no sooner does they go about, my boy, but the muskeety of a cruiser lets drive at her off the top of a sea, as we hung broadside to them in stays. Blessed if I ever see sich a mark!—the shot jist takes our fore top fair slap—for the next minute I seed the fore-topmast come over the lee-side, an' astarn we begins to go directly. What's more, mate, I never see a small craft yet handled better in a sea, as that 'ere chap did—nor the same thing done, cleaner at any rate—for they jist comes nigh-hand tip on our bowsprit-end, as the schooner lifted—then up in the wind they went like clockwork, with a starnway on as carried the f'lucca right alongside on us, like a coachman backing up a lane, and grind we both heaved on the swell, with the topmast hamper an' its canvas for a fender atwixt us. Aboard jumps the man-o'-war's-men, in course, cutlash in hand, an' for five minutes some tough work there was on deck, by the tramp, the shots, an' the curses over our heads—when off they shoved the hatches, and I seed a tall young feller in a gold-banded cap look below. Be blowed if I wasn't goin' to sing out again, for, d' ye see, I'm blessed if I took mind on the chap at all, as much by reason o' the blood an' the smoke he'd got on his face as aught else. Hows'ever, I holds a bit meantime, on account o' Job Price an' that 'ere piratecy consarn—till what does I think, a hour or two arter, when I finds as this here were the very leftenant as chased us weeks on end in the Camaroons. So a close stopper, sure enough, I keeps on my jaw; an' as for scentin' me out amongst a couple o' hundred blacks in the hold, why, 'twere fit to 'ppal my own mother herself.
"'Well, Jack, by this time bein' near Serry Loney, next day or so we got in—where, what does they do but they lubberrates us all, as they calls it, into a barracoon ashore, till sich time as the slaver ud be condemned—an' off goes the tender down coast again. Arter that, they treats us well enough, but still I dursn't say a word; for one day, as we goed to work makin' our huts, there I twigs a printed bill upon the church-wall, holdin' out a reward, d' ye see, consarnin' the piratecy, with my oun name and my very build logged down—ownly, be hanged if they doesn't tack on to it all, by way of a topgallant ink-jury to a man, these here words—"He's a very ugly feller—looks like a furriner." Well, mate, I ain't a young maiden, sure enough, but, thinks I, afore I fell foul o' that blasted fittish-man an' his nut, cuss me if I looks jist so bad as that 'ere! So ye know this goes more to my heart nor aught else, till there I spells out another confounded lie in the bill, as how Captin Price's men had mutinied again him, and murdered the brig's crew—when, in course, I sees the villain's whole traverse at once. So sayin', I watched my chance one night an' went aboard a Yankee brig as were to sail next day; an' I tells the skipper part o' the story, offerin' for to work my passage across for nothing; which, says he, "It's a hinterestin' narritif"—them was his words; and, says he, "It's a land o' freedom is the States, an' no mistake—ain't there no more on ye in the like case?" he says. "Not as I knows on, sir," I answers; an' says he, "Plenty o' coloured gen'lmen there is yonder, all in silks an' satins; an' I hear," says he, "there's one on 'em has a chance o' bein' President next time—anyhow I'm your friend," says he, quite hearty.
"'Well, the long an' short of it was, I stays aboard the brig, works my spell in her, an' takes my trick at the hellum—but I'm blowed, Jack, if the men 'ud let me sleep in the foc'sle, 'cause I was a black, so I slung my hammock aft with the nigger stoord. D' ye see, I misgived myself a bit when we sank the coast, for, thinks I, it's in Africay as that 'ere blessed mushroom are to be found, to take the colour off me—hows'ever, I thinks it carn't but wear out in time, now I've got out o' that 'ere confounded mess, where, sure enough, things was against me. So at last the v'yage were up, an' the brig got in to New Orleans. There I walks aft to the skipper for to take leave, when says he, wonderfly friendly like, "Now, my lad," says he, "I'm goin' up river a bit for to see a friend as takes a interest in your kind—an' if ye likes, why I'll pay yer passage that far?" In course I agrees, and up river we goes, till we lands at a fine house, where I'm left in a far-handy, ye know, while the skipper an' his friend has their dinner. All at once the gen'lman shoves his head out of a doure, takes a look at me, an' in again—arter that I hears the chink o' dollars—then the skipper walks out, shuts the doure, and says he to me, "Now," he says, "that's a 'cute sort o' tale ye tould me, my lad, but it's a lie, I guess!" "Lie, sir!" says I, "what d' ye mean?" for ye see that 'ere matter o' the iv'ry brig made me sing small at first. "No slack, Pumpey," says he, liftin' his forefinger like a schoolmaster; "ain't yer name Pumpey?" says he. "Pumpey!" says I, "my name's Jack Brown," for that wor the name I'd gived him afore. "Oh!" says he, "jest say it's Gin'ral Washington, right off. Come," says he, "I guess I'd jest tell ye what tripe you belongs to—you're a Mandigy nigger," says he. "It's all very well," he says, "that 'ere yarn, but that's wot they'd all say when they comes, they've been dyed black! Why," says he, "doesn't I see that 'ere brand one night on yer back—there's yer arms all over pagan tattooin'——" "Bless ye, captin," I says, a-holdin' up my arm, "it's crowns an' anchors!" "Crowns!" says he, turnin' up his nose, "what does we know o' crowns hereaway—we ain't barbers yet, I guess"—of what he meant by barbers here, mate, I'm hanged if I knowed. "'Sides," says he, "you speaks broken Aimerricane!" "'Merricain?" I says, "why, I speaks good English! an' good reason, bein' a free-born Briton—as white's yerself, if so be I could ownly clap hands for a minnet on some o' them mushrooms I tould ye on!" "Where does they grow, then?" axes he, screwin' one eye up. "In Africay yonder, sir," I says, "more's the pity I hadn't the chance to lay hands on them again!" "Phoo!" says he, "glad they ain't here! An' does you think we 're a-goin' for to send all the way over to Africay for them mushrooms you talks on? Tell ye what, yer free papers 'ud do ye a sight more good here!" says he; "it's no use with a black skin for to claim white laws; an' what's more, ye're too tarnation ugly-faced for it, let alone colour, Pumpey, my man," he says. "I tell ye what it is, Captin Edwards," says I, "my frontispiece ain't neither here nor there, but if you calls me Pumpey again, blowed an' I don't pitch inty ye!"—so with that I handles my bones in a way as makes him hop inside the doure—an' says the skipper houldin' it half-shut, "Harkee, lad," he says, "it's no go your tryin' for to run, or they'll make ye think angels o' bo'sun's-mates. But what's more," says he, "nivver you whisper a word o' what ye tells me, about nuts an' mushrooms, or sich like trash—no more will I; for d' ye see, my lad, in that case they'd jest hush ye up for good!" "Who d' ye mean?" I says, all abroad, an' of a shiver like—mindin' on the slave-schooner again. "Why, the planter's people," says he, "as I've sold ye to." An' with that he pints into his mouth, and shuts the doure.
"'Well, mate, ye may fancy how I feels! Here I stands, givin' a look round for a fair offing; but there was bulwarks two fadom high all round the house, a big bloodhound lyin' chained, with his muzzle on his two paws, an' nobody seem'd for to mind me. So, I see'd it were all up wonst more; an' at the thou't of a knife in my tongue, I sits right down in the far-handy, rig'lar flabbergasted, when out that 'ere blasted skipper snoots his head again, an' says he, "Pumpey, my lad, good-day," says he; "you knows some'at o' the water, an' as they've boat-work at times hereaway, I don't know but, if you behaves yerself, they'll trust you with an oar now an' then: for I tould yer master jist now," says he, "as how you carn't speak no English!" Well, I gives him a hoath, 'cause by that time I hadn't a word to throw at a dog; and shortly arter, up comes the overseer with his black mate, walks me off to a shed, strips me, and gives me a pair o' cotton drawers and a broad hat—so out I goes the next mornin' for to hoe sugarcane with a gang o' niggers.
"'Well, mate, arter that I kept close enough—says no more, but mumbles a lot o' no-man's jargon, as makes 'em all log me down for a sort o' double-Guinea savitch—'cause why, I were hanged afeard for my tongue, seein', if so be I lost it, I'd be a nigger for ever, sure enough. So the blacks, for most part being country-bred, they talks nothin' but a blessed jumble, for all the world like babbies at home; an' what does they do but they fancies me a rig'lar African nigger, as proud as Tommy, an' a'most ready for to washup me they wor—why, the poor divvles 'ud bring me yams and fish; they kisses my flippers an' toes as I'd been the Pope; an' as for the young girls, I'm blowed if I warn't all the go amongst 'em—though I carn't say the same where both's white, ye know! What with the sun an' the cocoa-nut ile, to my thinkin', I gets blacker an' blacker—blessed if I didn't fancy a feller's very mind turned nigger. I larns their confounded lingo, an' I answers to the name o' Pumpey, blast it, till I right-down forgets that I'd ever another. As for runnin', look ye, I knowed 'twas no use thereaway, as long as my skin tould against me, an' as long as Africay wor where it wor. So, my boy, I see'd pretty clear, ye know, as this here world 'ud turn a man into a rig'lar built slave-nigger in the long run if he was an angel out o' heaven!
"'Well, mate, one day I'm in the woods amongst a gang, chopping firewood for the sugar-mill, when, what does I light on betwixt some big ground-leaves and sich like, but a lot o' them very same red mushrooms as the fittish-man shows me in Africay!—blowed if there warn't a whole sight o' them round about, too! So I pulls enough for ten, ye may be sure, stuffs 'em in my hat, an' that same night, as soon as all's dark, off I goes into the woods, right by the stars, for the nearest town 'twixt there and New Orleans. As soon as I got nigh-hand it, there I sits down below a tree amongst the bushes, hauls off my slops, an' I turns to for to rub myself all over, from heel to truck, till daybreak. So, in course, I watches for the light angshis enough, as ye may suppose, to know what colour I were. Well, strike me lucky, Jack, if I didn't jump near a fadom i' the air, when at last I sees I'm white wonst more!—blessed if I didn't feel myself a new man from stem to starn! I makes right for a creek near by, looks at my face in the water, then up I comes again, an' every yarn o' them cussed slave-togs I pulls to bits, when I shoves 'em under the leaves. Arter that I took fair to the water for about a mile, jist to smooth out my wake, like; then I shins aloft up a tree, where I stowed myself away till noon—'cause, d'ye see, I knowed pretty well what to look for next. An' by this time, mind ye, all them queer haps made a fellow wonderful sharp, so I'd scheme out the whole chart aforehand how to weather on them cussed Yankees.
"'Accordently, about noon, what does I hear but that 'ere savitch bloodhound comin' along up creek, with a set o' slave-catchers astarn, for to smell out my track. With that, down I went in the water again, rounds a point into the big river, where I gets abreast of a landin' place, near the town, with craft laying out-stream, boats plyin', an' all alive. D' ye see, bo', I'd got no clothes at all, an' how for to rig myself again, 'blowed if I knows—seein' as how by this time I'd turned as white as the day I were born, an' a naked white man in a town arn't no better than a black nigger. So in I swims like a porpus afore a breeze, an' up an' down I ducks in the shallow, for all the world like a chap a-takin' a bath; an' out I hollers to all an' sundry, with a Yankee twang i' my nose, for to know if they had seen my clothes, till a whole lot on 'em crowds on the quay. Hows'ever, I bethinks me on that 'ere blasted brand atwixt my shoulders, an' I makes myself out as modest as a lady, kicks out my legs, and splashes like a whale aground, an' sticks out my starn to 'em for to let 'em see it's white. "Hullo!" I sings out, "han't ye seen my clothes?" "No, stranger," says they, "someun's runned off with 'em, we cal'clates!" With that I tells 'em I'm a Boston skipper new comed up from New Orleans; an' not being used to the heat, why I'd took a bath the first thing; an' I 'scribes the whole o' my togs as if I'd made 'em—"split new," says I, "an' a beaver hat, more by token there's my name inside it; an'," says I, "there's notes for a hundred dollars in my trousers!"